Keegan's decision to detach didn't make the world relent. It only made the methods subtler. Faces rotated more frequently, handlers reassigned before familiarity could form, conversations cut short by protocol. The Guild called it optimization. Keegan recognized it as conditioning. They were removing variables by force, shaping him into something easier to deploy and harder to break.
Training resumed under tighter constraints. No partners. No team drills. Everything was solo, simulated, controlled. He fought projections of Hemarchs that mimicked past encounters, each one designed to trigger memory rather than skill. The Knife Hemarch construct appeared twice, its movements precise enough to bring back the smell of blood and iron. Keegan finished the drill with shaking hands and a flat expression. The observers marked improvement.
Between sessions, he was evaluated by people who never gave their names. Psychological assessments replaced conversation, questions framed to provoke response without offering connection. "Do you feel responsible for casualties linked to you?" one asked. Keegan answered honestly. "Yes." The answer was logged without comment. Responsibility, it seemed, was acceptable. Attachment was not.
The Blink Hemarch remained quiet during these days. Too quiet. Keegan felt it watching during moments of stress, but it did not offer relief or temptation. It was learning restraint alongside him, adapting to the same rules. When his heart rate spiked, it did not respond. When anger flared, it stayed coiled. That absence of interference was almost worse than hunger.
The next incident was intentional. A civilian extraction drill went wrong on paper but perfectly in practice. Keegan was routed through a containment corridor where a young evacuee waited, crying and alone. The child looked up at him with recognition that Keegan hadn't earned. "Are you here to help?" they asked. Keegan froze. The timing was too perfect.
The Hemarch attack came seconds later. Fast. Surgical. Keegan was restrained by protocol, unable to activate Blink without authorization. The evacuee was taken apart in front of him, blood splattering the corridor walls. The Hemarch retreated immediately after, as if its purpose had been fulfilled. Keegan screamed once, raw and uncontrolled, before the guards sedated him.
When he woke, there was no apology. Only data. The examiner's voice was calm as they reviewed the incident. "Your emotional spike exceeded previous thresholds," they said. "The Blink Hemarch showed increased internal activity, though no activation occurred." Keegan stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched until it hurt. "You used them," he said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes," the examiner replied. "Because enemies will do the same." The logic was airtight and monstrous. Keegan turned his head away, refusing to give them his eyes. Something inside him hardened—not rage, not grief, but resolve sharpened by repetition. If this was conditioning, then he would learn faster than they expected.
That night, the shadow panther's eyes appeared again in the dark. This time, they were closer. Not looming. Not threatening. Watching him with something like approval. Keegan didn't look away. He met its gaze steadily, pain still fresh, emotions locked down by force of will.
"I won't break," he whispered, not sure who he was speaking to. The Blink Hemarch did not answer. It didn't need to. Both of them understood the terms now. The world would keep killing what got close to him. And Keegan would keep surviving—until surviving itself became a weapon.